thirteen is just luck
seventeen was a coming of age
almost twenty four she said
and this caused a remote
response

back to a day when
vocation stood second
arbitrary and coarse
I held your hips to my face
felt your weight fall
and fall

I was always there to fall on
fall back on
I was some thing
not some one
but I melted on these
snowcaps like ice
in a double

incongruous and
incoherent with a
stupid grin…
Like art and victory
her arm was miles long
as was this fucking road

and not a sign in sight
and not a rulebook
and no morals
and no story line
and no cliffs
and not a word said

only the goosebumps
on the back of my fingers
leave no prints
no lineage
sorry baby
I have no soul
or purpose
or real pulse after all.

© Tom Watters  5/25/07

matter-of-fact
and dismissingly
transitory
this thin fabric
that cradles
and caresses blithely

light blue
in color
and in nature

let this blow
on the wind
she discards it like
the ticket stub from
a summer movie
predictably lost

time is swift
and achingly
invisible

never declares
or commits to print
on thick parchment
words come forth
from fingertips
that are eagerly blind

not for sale
yet peddled
as vital

I hear with my eyes
build this Babylon
on a bed of sand
ignoring the cautionary
huff and puff
of parables past

her dreams
scuffed out
on chalkboard

I meld with her
in a sea of my own
electricity and hope
misguided, thirsty
bluntly out
of sync

longing for
the touch
that never comes

hawking

© Tom Watters  5/13/07